Cherryvale, in Tandem
by rhombus
Summary: Kyle/Oliver. Sequel to: What Happens in Cherryvale...; Cherryvale, Revisited; and Home, Sweet Cherryvale.


**Cherryvale, in Tandem**

Oliver drummed his fingers over the daily calendar on his desk. He glanced up at the clock, then towards the chief's closed office door. Puffing out his cheeks, he turned his attention to his empty work request inbox. He'd been working hard all week, staying late without reporting his overtime, just to make sure he'd have the time today to do... what he wanted to do. What he needed to do.

He stole another glance at the chief's door, then flinched back in his chair when it suddenly flung open.

The chief looked around the squad room before finally resting his eyes on Oliver, frowning. "Fish. Stop staring at the walls and get in here, will ya?"

Oliver jumped to his feet, reflexively straightening his pants and shirt, then walked slowly, purposefully, into the chief's office. He lowered himself onto one of the hard metal chairs by the desk, gripping the arms until his fingers turned yellow.

"Officer Fish." The chief held up a sheet of paper with official CPD letterhead. "Care to tell me what exactly this is?"

Oliver gulped. He could guess, but he didn't want to be wrong. "I'm... not sure." He took a deep breath, then remembered himself and quickly added, "Sir."

"Maybe this will help." The chief tilted his head at him, then began to read from the paper. "'To Whom it May Concern. I, Oliver Fish, am hereby officially requesting to go on patrol duty on March 23, 2008. I believe I am capable and well suited for the task. A list of references can be provided upon request. Yours Sincerely, etc.'"

Oliver tried to swallow his nerves. He thought his tongue might have gone along for the ride too, since he was having trouble speaking. "And?" he managed to squeak out, quirking his jaw to the left.

The chief merely twitched an eyebrow. "And what?"

"Is my request approved?"

"Fish. What on earth made you write this?" The chief held the corner of the request between his thumb and forefinger, waggling it in the air.

Oliver looked up at the ceiling. "I..."

"Yes?"

He shrugged, and that somehow pitched his voice higher. "I thought I was supposed to."

"And what gave you that idea?"

"Amanda?" He hated how it sounded like a question.

"Amanda-at-_intake_ Amanda?"

He brought his wayward gaze back down, surprised by the chief's incredulous tone. "Um, yeah?"

"Amanda-who-has-a-bone-to-pick-with-you Amanda?"

"Wait... what? She does?"

The chief folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "Fish. If there's one thing I've learned on the job, it's that you should never, and I mean never, top your hot dog with department chili."

"I... don't follow you, sir."

"Don't date the help. They think it gives them the right to stop being helpful."

"Oh." Oliver fidgeted in his chair, not sure if he liked the chief's tone. "I, um, didn't know?" He cleared his throat. "I didn't know that _you_ knew. That we had gone out."

"Small department, Fish. Everyone knows everything. And, next time, don't throw your drink at your date, okay?"

Oliver's mouth dropped open, his hackles raised. "I didn't _throw_ it at her. I spilled it on her."

The chief laughed at him. Oliver felt his shoulders shrink.

"How'd you manage that, boy?"

"She..." She had reached under the table and touched him in places that were not meant to be touched in public. "She startled me."

"And this is the guy who is, what was it?" He glanced over the request. "Capable and well suited for patrol duty? Startled by a little nothing of a gal?"

Oliver's chin dropped and he exhaled heavily. "So, I can't do it? Request denied?"

Maybe it was for the best. It was the universe's way of telling him not to go. To leave things as they were. He didn't know what he'd do if he ended up... _there_, anyway.

"Fish." The chief rested his crossed arms on the desk and leaned his weight forward, as if he were about to reveal an age-old secret. "You don't have to make formal requests for patrol. Amanda was obviously yanking your chain. You're already authorized for duty. Just go up front and sign out the keys, if there's a car to spare. And if we don't need you for anything around here, with the computers and stuff."

"Really?" He should have remembered the CPD way: Tough on perps; lax on... everything else.

"Yeah. Oh, and Fish?"

"Yeah?"

"Try to write as many tickets as possible, okay? The city's a little low on funds right now."

Oliver sucked his lower lip into his mouth and stared at his hands. He'd learned to avert his eyes whenever he saw dollar signs creep into the chief's eyes. Like his duty was to the coffers, and not to the protection of the people. That wasn't why Oliver had become a cop. He just wanted to help, to be one of the good guys, like his dad, to be someone to be proud of. Not to be some tax collector, some low-level Deputy of Nottingham.

Yet all he'd managed to do in his illustrious career to-date was get transferred, fix old computers, and identify a dead body. Much good he was doing anyone.

The chief's voice broke through his thoughts. "You know, really go after 'em. Jaywalkers. Litterers. Speeders. Parking Violators. Trespassers. Everybody. You got that?"

"Um, yeah." He looked up. The chief was staring at him with narrowed eyes. "I mean, yes sir." He stood, holding out his hand for a shake. "You can count on me, sir."

"All right. Here. You can have this back." Instead of shaking, the chief handed over the letter.

Oliver took it and folded it into quarters, then dropped it in the empty recycling bin by the chief's door. "No littering for this guy." He poked himself in the chest with both thumbs, forced out a chuckle, then walked backwards out of the office, feeling like the world's biggest goober.

"I'm such an idiot," he whispered to himself, as soon as he was out of earshot.

* * * * *

Oliver flicked on the dispatch radio and pulled the car out of the lot. He felt like he was fifteen years old again, taking his dad's car out for the first time. Sweat pooled in between his fingers and the steering wheel, and his uniform felt awfully confining and hot all of a sudden.

He straightened his shoulders and blew the air out of his cheeks, hoping to bolster himself with some confidence. He was used to having a partner around, but in the CPD that was a luxury, not a necessity. He'd tried, when he first reported for duty, to make sense all the inconsistencies and failures in logic surrounding his new department, surrounding the whole strange town, but to no avail. And it wasn't just confined to Cherryvale. Llanview was kind of wacky, too, now that he thought about it. It was a weird part of the country, that was for sure. He wasn't in Iowa anymore. He used to say that a lot back in college, joking around with... with all his friends.

College. He couldn't seem to escape the topic these days. Maybe he should've just stopped trying. It obviously wasn't going to go away.

But it could, right? If he just... ignored it? He wasn't that person anymore, so he shouldn't bother with that person's thoughts or memories or feelings.

Except, there was a reason he'd chosen today specifically to request patrol duty. And it had _everything_ to do with that person's thoughts and memories and feelings.

Braking at an empty intersection, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No matter what he wanted or had decided about today, he was on the clock. He had a job to do. Duties to perform and duties to collect, because the city was low on funds. And he'd heard the stories from the other guys who had survived the last round of cutbacks. It was always the new guys who were let go, even if they were good cops—better cops than the Good Old Boys and their good old job security. And that meant he could be in trouble. And if he wasn't a cop... he'd be _nothing_.

He couldn't risk losing that. Even if it meant filling the coffers, ignoring everything he believed in... or everything he used to be.

The sound of a car pulling up behind him woke him from his thoughts and he snapped open his eyes. Gripping his hands tighter around the steering wheel, he turned west at the intersection and continued on. Glancing to his left, he noticed a familiar patch of land. He looked down at his portable GPS. _Of course_, he thought, resignation sitting heavy on his shoulders. Of course he'd ended up on Hollyhock Road. His inattention had brought him to the one place he couldn't seem to stay away from. It was always at the edge of his thoughts, tiptoeing along behind his eyes, at the back of his tongue, whispering in his ears. It was a constant bother.

Yet, here he was.

Panic battled with yearning for conquest of his nerves.

He could turn around, right then and there, go back toward main street and the town center. Or... he could do what he'd been planning, what he'd been dreading.

With a deep breath, he kept the car aimed forward, continuing on its predetermined path. He was on duty—but he might be needed there, just in case things got out of hand. When people's emotions got the better of them, there was no saying what they were capable of. It didn't hurt to be safe. To err on the side of caution.

It didn't have anything to do with... _him_. Oliver glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The eyes he found there didn't look convinced.

Because it did. He couldn't contain the truth any longer. No more lies. It had _everything_ to do with him. Asking for the request, hoping it wouldn't go through, ending up on this road. All him. All... Kyle. He couldn't stop himself from thinking the name.

Was it so wrong to want to make sure he was okay? They had been friends once—best friends. That counted for something. How many times had Kyle made sure _he_ was okay? Been there for him when he needed someone? Too many to count. He could return the favor, finally. And then maybe he could finally get that nagging voice out of his head, reminding him that things weren't settled, weren't square between them. And once he took care of that, maybe things would start to turn around for him.

He stared himself down in the rear view mirror, nodding with confidence. "Karmic debt, prepare to be repaid."

The familiar house and all its ancillary structures crept closer into view, until the whole property was finally before him. He pulled off the road, at the bottom of the drive, but didn't dare go any closer. Steeling his nerves, he unbuckled his seat belt, opened the door, put a foot on the ground. His head exited next, popping up over the open door, his eyes taking in the scene.

People milled about, dressed casually, paper cups in their hands. A table was set up with drinks and... and the urn. He scanned the crowd until his eyes finally caught onto familiar movement. His gaze followed Kyle as he walked up to someone, a young guy—one of the only other younger people here—and began talking to him, his hands gesturing energetically.

Without knowing why, Oliver suddenly descended back into the safety of the car, slamming the door shut behind his retreating body. He didn't know what he'd expected to see. Kyle standing alone, waiting for him? Of course not. Of course he'd have people here for him, friends he could talk to, who would support him. He'd practically lived here, after all.

If Kyle had been alone, if he had been in some kind of distress, well, then, Oliver would have checked up on him. He would have. But Kyle was clearly okay. And he didn't need the stress of dealing with one more person right now. Someone he probably didn't want to see. Someone he probably never wanted to see again.

Oliver heard his own voice come back to him like an echo, far off in the distance, shouting. He shook his head, casting off the memory.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking. Kyle didn't need him. Kyle had never really needed him. He was always so independent, so self-assured. He didn't need to be coddled or babied or held while he cried, because he never cried. Misted up a little bit, got a little red-rimmed around the eyes—sure. Everyone did that every once in a while. But cry?

_Only when he was happy._

Oliver's brows creased. Where had that thought come from?

But he couldn't escape the thought now, not once it had already been set loose in his brain. It was like trying to put spritzed water back into the nozzle of a spray bottle.

He tried to remember the last time he'd seen Kyle happy. Really happy. Not just the little smiles; those were always weighed down by something else. An image suddenly formed in his head—the photo. Kyle watching Sue with the foal. Oliver's hands, completely autonomous from his wishes, reached behind him, extracted his wallet from his uniform, and pulled out the offending photo. He didn't know why he had taken it from Sue in the first place. It was his hands, again, doing things on their own, without permission.

God. He'd stolen something off... off a corpse. How sick was he? It was just more proof that he should never, ever think about Kyle or college or all the other mistakes he'd fallen into in the past.

But he couldn't put the photo away. His eyes, too, were disobeying direct orders. They focused on the photo, took in every detail. The stables—how they looked exactly the same. He could imagine himself inside, positioning himself so that he could see it from the same angle as the picture. Sue—younger, slightly. Glowing with pride and apprehension and joy.

Kyle—smiling. But sad, still. Always. And the photo was snapped before he'd even _met_ Oliver. As if that fact could assuage his leftover guilt. Coming here in the first place was supposed to do that. But instead of getting out of the car, doing what he wasn't sure anymore was even the right thing, for either of them, he did nothing. He sat in his car, hiding, like always. Staring at a photo he'd attained through graverobbing. He couldn't look away.

Examining that familiar face, that... familiar body, in a place he recognized, that he'd been in before, he couldn't stop himself from picking at that tightly sealed memory bank he kept stored in the back of his brain. Smells came back to him first. The pungent stables; Kyle's salty skin. Then the sounds. The clomp of a horse's hoof; Kyle's breath in his ear; Kyle's laugh. Then the sensations. Kyle's tears on his fingertips.

_"It's just, I can't remember ever being so... happy."_

_Stop it_, he begged himself. It only hurt to think those things. Things he couldn't have, even if he wanted them. Things he shouldn't _want_ to have.

But he'd made a tactical error. Keeping the memories tightly stored, air-sealed, never pulling them out, it only made them more fresh. He hadn't given them the chance to grow stale, or less vivid, dulled from overuse and repetition. It was as if they were in mint condition, pristine, still in the box. As if he were experiencing them for the first time.

He closed his eyes and fought off the sting of tears. He couldn't fight off the memories, though. Not anymore.

* * * * *

He was nineteen years old. Old enough to vote, yet still young enough to invoke the solemn oath of the Silent Treatment when someone had royally pissed him off.

Even if that someone was currently wandering around with his shirt off, his torso glistening with sweat, his muscles tensing like cables under his skin as he lifted feed bags and pulled out dirty troughs and all sorts of other horse-related chores that shouldn't have been making Oliver feel the way he was feeling. He really needed to get control of himself. He'd done so many things over the past few days without _thinking_ first...

The problem was, he only had the one thought running through his head, bumping and jostling against the walls of his brain like a mad, wild thing. It wouldn't let up. _Kyle looks hot. I wanna watch Kyle look hot. Kyle's hotness is worth looking at._

No. He could control this. Besides, he was mad at Kyle. For embarrassing him at breakfast. Laughing and talking with Sue about... about what they'd done the night before. Like it wasn't something private. Like it didn't mean anything to Kyle. Like it was something he did all the time.

Like it was a joke.

Oliver couldn't stand the thought. He narrowed his eyes at Kyle's back, aiming death glares at those delicate shoulder blades that had felt so good under his touch, and he double pledged his vow of silence. Turning his head and his attention back to his Kyle-appointed task, he ran the brush Kyle had handed him down the horse's back and legs. The horse snorted at him. Oliver felt like snorting back, but restrained himself.

Had it been so laughable? Had _he_ been so laughable? He didn't want to think about it. To think about Kyle... comparing him to—to other people. To other guys. _Oh God_. He suddenly regretted coming here, regretted his stupid impulsive decisions and his brain's inability to think non-Kyle thoughts.

As if on cue, he flashed to Kyle's face, how serene and calm and... and beautiful it had been, when they were lying together, afterward. It _had_ meant something, hadn't it?

But Kyle had still run his mouth about it to Sue. Or, at least, he hadn't _denied_ it when she guessed.

The horse snorted at him again. Snapping out of his thoughts, he realized he'd gotten a bit aggressive in his brush strokes. He heard Kyle's footsteps behind him.

"Hey, whoa," Kyle said. "Easy there. You don't wanna skin him. Just brush him. Nice and soft." Kyle moved in close. "Like this." His hand came over Oliver's, rested on it gently, then the fingers squeezed down, gripping him, steadying him. Kyle's other hand found its way onto Oliver's hip, and two fingers slid into his belt loop. Oliver inhaled, quietly, trying to keep his reaction to himself. He took the oath of the Silent Treatment very seriously.

"That's it," Kyle murmured, his voice deep and smooth—comforting, like a warm summer night.

Kyle's body pressed up close behind him, moving with him as they stroked the brush down the horse's body. He could feel Kyle's chest, the soft poke of his nipples, against his back. Warm breath pooled on his neck, sticking to him, to his sweat, marking him, just as sure as a firebrand would, making the unbearably hot stable even hotter.

His body was reacting to it, and not just the front, the part whose excitement he always had to calm down when Kyle was near. But the back, too, where there was a new ache; though instead of pain, it felt more like _need_. It was like there was a magnet, a pull coming from within him that was trying to draw Kyle closer... draw him back inside...

He couldn't believe what he'd let Kyle do to him the night before. What he'd _asked_ Kyle to do to him. It had been... it had felt really good. But that didn't make it right. Doing drugs probably felt good, too, and engaging in violence, but self-gratification didn't give anyone the right to inflict harm.

But who was he hurting, really? He wasn't hurting Kyle. He'd been afraid that he was going to, when he'd pushed inside him. His whole body had trembled, he was so scared that he'd do something wrong, and Kyle would turn away, pull away from him, and... and be disgusted with him, be disgusted with all the things Oliver wanted to do to him, to try with him, for the first time.

But Kyle hadn't looked at him like he was a freak. He had smiled, and laughed, kissed and touched his face, and Oliver had realized that he wasn't alone in his wants, in his feelings. There was someone out there just like him, who understood him, someone who was nice and—and normal. And that meant that _he_ could be normal, too. Even if he didn't think it was possible, he could _feel_ it. For the first time in his life. And it felt... right.

It felt real.

"You think you got it now?" Kyle's fingers pulled out of his belt loop and he took a step back, but Oliver quickly grabbed the retreating hand and returned it to its place.

"Not—not yet."

He had broken his self-imposed vow of silence. But it was worth it, because Kyle's hand rubbed his hip, the fingers dug in, then widened their exploration, venturing to his stomach, peeking under his shirt, sliding against his sweaty skin. Kyle moved his body closer while they resumed their slow, steady brush strokes. Together.

Warm breath danced over Oliver's neck as Kyle chuckled. "I think I've seen a couple of pornos start this way."

Oliver blushed. Then he dropped his head and let himself laugh. He felt Kyle's lips on the base of his neck, soft and lingering, and all of his earlier anger evaporated under the heat of that kiss.

A warm and fluttering sensation swelled in his chest. He wanted to stay this way forever, with Kyle, in this place where no one could find them.

* * * * *

Oliver's eyes snapped open. He must have fallen asleep. He'd been dreaming. Or... had he? He didn't know. Something was rubbing against his lap, against a part of him that wasn't _supposed_ to be on duty at the moment. He looked down, only to discover his own palm pressing down against the hardness, running along it, seemingly of its own will.

He jerked up his hand, gasping for air, overwhelmed by feelings and memories that seemed so real.

_They _**_were_**_ real._

Were those his own thoughts, or was he hearing _him_ again? Everything was all jumbled together. He'd lost track of time, of where he was. He looked up through the windshield to get his bearings... only to see the house before him. The porch. The porch swing. The man standing there. So familiar—those shoulders, his slim fingers running along the chains, then reaching for the door, then his head turning, staring at him, staring right at him.

_Oh God._

He was so close. He was right there. He could just walk over and they would be together again. Talking, or fighting, or kiss—or whatever. Oliver couldn't look at him any longer. It was too much. The photo come to life. What would _that_ do to his head? He couldn't risk any more weird blackouts as the memories took hold.

He jammed the keys into the ignition and turned his wrist, maybe a little too hard, as the car groaned underneath him, but he didn't care. He couldn't stay any longer.

He was supposed to be on patrol duty. He was supposed to be ticketing everyone who crossed his path, no infraction too slight. What had the chief said? _"Jaywalkers. Litterers. Speeders. Parking Violators. Trespassers."_

Trespassers.

Oliver shook his head, then shifted the car into reverse. No, there wasn't any trespassing going on here. He didn't need to write any citations, didn't need to stick around here at all. He could head up the road a bit and catch some speeders. That would be a better use of his time anyway. He pulled out of the drive, keeping his eyes glued to the mirrors, to the road behind him. He didn't dare shift them back toward the house.

He headed north, where the roads all converged by the highway. It was a good place to catch speeders. After fifteen or twenty minutes of idling at the side of the road, keeping his eyes directly forward, not allowing them to venture to the passenger seat, where he had dropped the photo in his haste to leave, he finally met with an excellent distraction.

A white truck zoomed past. He checked his radar gun. _Way_ over the posted limit. Thank God.

He chased down the truck, his lights blaring, and felt a thrill run through him as the truck pulled over. Finally, someone was following his orders. He had total control of the situation. He strolled up to the parked truck, his chest puffing out a little bit.

He knocked on the driver's side door. "License and registration, please." He wished he hadn't said _please_.

"Yeah, yeah." The driver began rummaging through his glove compartment, then handed over the required materials.

"You know," Oliver said, trying to sound as stern as possible, "I clocked you doing sixty-five. It's a forty zone."

The driver's shoulders slumped and he looked up at Oliver with eyes that were trying to plead, but Oliver knew better. He prided himself on his ability to read people. Most people, anyway.

"C'mon, man," the driver whined. "I was just trying to get back to Philly before rush hour hits, y'know?" He ran a hand through his hair, but Oliver could tell it was just for effect. "And I just came from my mom's funeral. I guess... I guess I wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry. Can't you just... put that little pad away and... forget it?"

"I'm sorry. I can't. You broke the law."

"I drove a little fast."

"You broke the law."

"You don't even care that my mom just died?"

Oliver sighed, deciding to play along. "Your mom? You coming from that funeral, just down the road there? McClendon?"

"Yeah..."

He looked down at the driver's license sitting on his pad. "Says here your name's Josh _Robbins_."

"So?"

"And I happen to know that Sue McClendon didn't have any kids. So..."

The driver rolled his eyes as his head fell back against the head rest. "You ever heard of a foster mom? God. You figured it out. You got me. She's not my real mom." His hands flew off the steering wheel then landed back down with a thud. "Whoop-de-doo. Doesn't make her any less important to me. And she's dead. Dead. A little sympathy?"

Oliver swallowed. _Foster mom_. That explained... a lot. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"And?"

"And I'm still citing you for your speeding violation."

"Seriously, man? You're gonna ticket an _orphan_? I just buried the woman who was like a mother to me!"

Oliver tried hard not to roll his eyes. He saw the urn. Nobody had gotten _buried_. And orphans were little kids with newsie caps and fingerless gloves asking for soup. They didn't haul around in four-wheel drive trucks, breaking laws like they owned the road. They didn't own _anything_. But he wasn't about to argue semantics with a speeding violator. He was in charge of the situation, and he wouldn't brook any arguments anyway.

"Maybe you shouldn't be driving at all, if you're that upset. You could hurt someone. Reckless endangerment. That's a pretty steep penalty."

The driver's nostrils flared, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Fine. Just write me the speeding ticket."

Oliver began inputting the driver's information into the citation. He glanced up, biting his lip, and adopted a casual tone. "So, you lived with Sue? Do you know—" He breathed out quickly, steadying his nerves. "Do you know Kyle Lewis?"

He said the name. Out loud. For the first time in... years. He said the name. He almost expected his tongue to burn. Denying the name for so long seemed wrong somehow. Like he was punishing Kyle for something he hadn't even done.

"What about that little gaywad?"

Oliver's head snapped up. A sudden shame crept over his cheeks. "N-nothing. Just wondering. I, uh... I went to school with him. That's all."

"Ugh." The driver grimaced. "Hope you steered clear of him. He's probably got more diseases than fingers."

Oliver's fist clenched around his pen. It was suddenly taking all his willpower _not_ to drop his pad, drag this a-hole out of his truck through the window, and throw him onto the ground.

God, Kyle must've had to deal with this guy at the funeral. That couldn't have been pleasant.

It probably broke his heart.

Oliver closed his eyes. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about Kyle, much less the state of his heart.

"Here." He shoved the ticket at the driver, keeping his eyes averted. If he had to look at that idiot's face one more time, he couldn't be held responsible for his actions. "You've got sixty days to pay up."

"Yeah, all right." The driver tossed the ticket onto the passenger seat and then jammed his truck into gear.

Oliver walked back to the squad car slowly. It had started so well. He'd been in charge. He'd known the jerk was lying. He'd had everything in complete control and he was doing a good job, for the city's funds _and_ its safety.

Then why did he feel like human garbage?

He shook his head. He was in a mood. Funerals did that to him.

Pulling the car back out onto the road, he barely noticed that he was in the middle of a three-point turn, aiming himself back toward Sue's place. Back toward Kyle. He suddenly realized, Kyle had been talking to _that_ guy. Not some friend. Not someone who could make him feel slightly better. They had probably argued. They may have even gotten into a fight. And that guy was _huge_. Kyle didn't stand a chance...

Feeling like useless garbage—it suddenly made sense to Oliver. He'd let Kyle down. Again. He couldn't do anything right. Even when he tried.

He could see the house growing close up ahead. He slowed, willing himself to drive past it without looking, willing himself to stop and get out and find Kyle and make sure he was okay, willing himself to just stop thinking that name and to go back to the station and sit at his empty desk and wait for a computer to break down again. Nothing made sense in his head anymore. He hated that feeling. Hated it.

It didn't stop him from turning his head, from seeing the lonely figure on the porch. Had he been there the whole time?

He watched as the figure slammed his fist against the door, then leaned his head on it in a display of complete and utter misery. Oliver felt a heaviness crowd inside his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. He knew what he had to do to make it go away. He could do it.

He kept telling himself that; eventually it _had_ to be true.

Reaching behind him, he struggled to pull his phone out of his back pocket while he drove. He had already passed the house, but he didn't need to do what he wanted to do in person. He'd only screw it up that way. A phone call would suffice. Talking was talking, and that's all he wanted to do, anyway. His fingers scrambling to get a hold of the phone, he finally pulled to the side of the road. Just as he settled the phone into his palm and prepared to dial, it buzzed loudly, vibrating along his hand, the screen flashing into life.

There wasn't any caller ID, but he recognized the number. He hit the accept button before he had a chance to change his mind. He spoke quickly, out of breath.

"Kyle? Are you okay? Kyle? Hello?"

Dead air. He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. _Call ended._

Kyle had hung up on him? Or maybe it was just an accidental disconnection. The towers out here were spotty at best with pumping out a steady signal.

His fingers dialed the number before his brain could stop them. The call went directly to voice mail.

But that voice. It had been so long. Years since he'd heard it. The heaviness in his chest settled in deeper. What was he doing? Besides being a complete idiot? He couldn't talk to Kyle. That wouldn't be fair. What if... what if it gave Kyle the wrong idea?

And besides... Kyle had hung up on him. He'd probably heard Oliver's voice and felt that same sense of dread, that same heaviness.

Or, _God_. He'd seen him. Seen him creeping around. Practically stalking him at his friend's funeral. He was probably calling to tell him to stay away. To keep out of his business. He was poking his head into places it didn't belong. And he couldn't argue with that. Skulking around the edges of Kyle's life, falling into memories that he wasn't even sure belonged to him anymore—he felt like a thief in the night. Like an intruder.

He was used to the feeling, though. It settled over him every morning he woke up in Cherryvale.


End file.
